


(Nobody Ever Made Me) Crazy Like This

by amathela



Category: Disney RPF
Genre: F/M, Makeouts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-10-30
Updated: 2009-10-30
Packaged: 2017-11-17 12:44:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 756
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/551705
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amathela/pseuds/amathela
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>She's still finding it a little difficult to concentrate.  Or to speak.  Thinking is mostly out of the question, too.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	(Nobody Ever Made Me) Crazy Like This

"David," Selena says. And she's pretty sure there's supposed to be more to that, like _David, we should stop,_ or _David, this is stupid,_ or even, _David, maybe we should prop something up against the door of the dressing room so someone doesn't accidentally walk in here and catch us,_ but his mouth is on her neck, trailing up from her collarbone, and it's not like they're even doing anything, really, his hands are just on her waist, but she's still finding it a little difficult to concentrate. Or to speak. Thinking is mostly out of the question, too. She can maybe make some throaty noises and form basic concepts in her head, but that's about it.

And even if she could speak, like, even if she could bring herself to care? She's not even sure how they got here in the first place. Like, in general, she gets, sometimes it feels like they've been building up to this forever, even if other times it feels like it kind of came out of nowhere and blindsided her, but right here, right now, specifically? She has no idea. One minute, they're just sitting on the couch, legs kind of touching, because they can do that now, but innocent, reading lines, laughing about something that must have been funny but she probably couldn't remember for the life of her. And the next, they're doing this, David kissing her while his hands slide up inside her shirt (only a little, not so much she'll think he's pushing, because that discussion, they've had already), backing her up against the arm of the couch while he lays half on top of her.

"David," she tries again (and she's not really sure if she's trying to get his attention, any more, or if she's just saying his name), but she only gets about halfway through the word before she has to suck in a breath, instead, because even if they're fully clothed and not even in a particularly compromising position, the entire dressing room feels like it's about a thousand degrees, starting wherever his skin is touching hers. And David must take that as encouragement or something, because he kind of grinds against her a little (just a little, in a way that's almost accidental), and his mouth presses harder against her neck, sucking more than kissing, and she knows it's going to leave a mark, knows that's a bad thing and she should probably care, but she can't quite bring herself to object.

(And she's supposed to be the responsible one, supposed to worry about what people think and actually care about living up to their expectations, but _god._ )

So she kind of grinds against him back, enough that it feels good, not so much he'll think she's asking him to take it further, and tilts her head back against the armrest, showing him what she can't actually ask him to do. And David's good at this, has always been good at this, playing off her reaction. On camera, or off.

His name, two syllables, seems like it might be beyond her right now, so she says, "Oh," instead, or something like it, and she can feel him smile against her neck, feel it burn where his lips meet her skin, the way they move a little every time she swallows. And then his mouth moves down again, staying above the neckline of her t-shirt, leaving behind skin that's red and sore and swollen and probably shouldn't feel anywhere near as good as it does.

And then she says, "David," because it turns out she can speak, now, after all, and he stops, looks up at her, partly concerned and partly just sort of dazed. (And she won't lie, there's a part of her that kind of loves knowing she can make him look like that.) And, okay, more words. Than one. Would be good. "Maybe we should lock the door."

"It doesn't lock," he says, but he seems to understand what she's getting at, anyway, because he gets up, wedges a chair underneath the door handle, and raises an eyebrow at her, like he's expecting her to comment on how cool he is or something. Which, well, it isn't exactly subtle, but neither is the hickey that's probably forming on her neck, and if they're pressed about it, she supposes they could just say the door got stuck or something (and that they were only running lines, of course).

And for the other thing, well, that's what makeup is for.


End file.
